


The Janitor

by charliewalkertexasranger



Category: Scream (Movies)
Genre: Attempted Murder, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Childhood Sexual Abuse, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Disturbing Themes, F/M, Horror, Incest, M/M, Masturbation, Molestation, Murder Kink, One Shot, Pedophilia, Rape Fantasy, Sibling Incest, Songfic, Stalking, i don't think this was wes craven's vision, i swear i am 15 and none of this is based off life experience, there is smut but please dont jack off to it, this is like a smoothie of horrible things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-26
Updated: 2018-08-26
Packaged: 2019-07-02 23:51:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15807069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charliewalkertexasranger/pseuds/charliewalkertexasranger
Summary: Good evening ladies and gentlemen, my mind is on display for youA tour that's sort of morbid so this morning allow me to take you throughA look into the minds of Woodsboro's two blossoming young creeps.





	The Janitor

**Author's Note:**

> i think trevor had something to hide but its definitely not this
> 
> also nothing to do with the fic but flashback to the time a bunch of people got triggered about tumblr style tags on ao3 and the ao3 tumblr went in and roasted them ok heres the fic ill shut up thanks for clicking on this you messed-up/curious individual

Charlie wants to own her.

He has been so obsessed with Kirby up to this point that he's never really thought about what he enjoys that isn't her and horror movies; his eyes are _always_ on her. He looks at every post she puts on Facebook, but never likes them, because he doesn't want her to think that he sees everything she puts online. He's close to failing Geometry, because she sits in the seat in front of him in that class, and he always spends the entire period taking in the floral notes of her perfume and staring at the back of her head while he imagines getting her in his bed and pounding her raw, her scent being the only thing he can smell and her moans of ecstasy as he forces himself inside her the only thing he can hear. Sometimes, if he sees her car when he's out and about, he'll deliberately follow her, at enough of a distance that she doesn't notice him. He wants to keep checks on what she's doing because everything she does and everything about her, from the tiny things, like the way she puts her hand under her chin during lectures and the way her face wrinkles up when she laughs, to the big things, like her interest in movies and her style of fashion, gets Charlie off, and he can't afford to miss a thing.

He keeps a photo album of her in his phone, under one of those password locker apps, just in case Robbie sneaks through his stuff, not that he expects Robbie to do that to _him._ Some are pictures he's stolen from her social media; most are candid photos he's snuck of her when she wasn't paying attention. One day, he shadowed her when she was hanging out with Jill and Olivia at the park, and he got some good snaps that he's cherished ever since. She was wearing a shirt he's sure she'd get dress-coded for if she ever wore it to school, because it exposed her shoulders, back, sides—and, most importantly, her cleavage. Holy shit, her _cleavage_. From a distance, behind a tree, Charlie zoomed in and took a few good shots of her tits, and once he'd gotten enough photos, he snuck back into his car, drove a few miles out of town, pulled over on a side road so no one would see him, and masturbated to them. When he was done, he licked his cum off of his hand and imagined she was the one doing it. He could already picture the look in her eyes as she did it, and he still can. Desperate, needy, hungry—it's her eyes Charlie thinks about whenever he climaxes, all the emotions she could hold in them. Emotions meant for him.

Because they are meant to be together, meant for each other, meant to be soulmates into eternity. Why else would Charlie be so obsessed with her if it wasn't intended by some higher power that he did this? He just doesn't understand why she can't see it. They've had classes together for four years now. Four whole years, definitely long enough for a girl to notice a guy. Besides, Kirby dresses like an absolute slut. A tomboyish slut, but a slut nonetheless, and Charlie thinks it's about time she acts the part and sucks him off in a stall of the school bathroom like it's prom or something.

Every time he tries to make a move on her, he fails, partially because he's the most awkward person he knows, the kind of person who drowns in social situations like they're freezing, churning waves, but mostly because Kirby's a stuck-up bitch who's too stupid to see what's right in front of her. But he'd also smile if she told him off for hitting on her, because everything she says to him is perfect. The problem is, she says nothing to him. She ignores him.

And Charlie hates being ignored.

He's recounting this all to himself while he lies spread out naked on his mattress in the aftermath of a climax from which his body is still trembling, his pulse hot and loud in his ears. Of course, he thought about Kirby to get himself aroused, and that's why he's thinking about her again, and about all the intricacies of their complex relationship. He wishes he could just talk to her like a normal person. He wishes he could just approach her, and tell her that he's loved her since the moment he met her. Things would be so much easier, then. But he can't, and he'll forever resent her for not seeing his desperation, his pain and suffering, and reaching out.

Reaching toward the nightstand, where he left it when he couldn't hold back his load anymore, Charlie snatches up his phone. He unlocks it, and, there it is, his favorite picture of Kirby, the one he just got off to. It's strangely, almost absurdly, innocent, because it's just last year's yearbook photo. But she looks so gorgeous standing there, with the glow the smile on her face radiates, the shine in her eyes, the flawlessness of her clear skin.

He'd just fucking demolish her, if he could. He'd break her hips and move all of her guts around inside her. She wouldn't be able to walk for at least a month, if ever again.

But that's never to happen, ever, and Charlie has to resign himself to that fact.

Wary of his surroundings, despite the fact that his parents aren't home, Robbie's been dying of the flu for several days and can't make any surprise visits, and no one else cares enough to come by except maybe Trevor, and that'll be not because Trevor likes him but because Charlie's done something he didn't realize hurt Jill's feelings, Charlie casts a furtive glance to his door before he switches to Facebook, also left open. There's Kirby. _Kirby_. He was just looking at her, and she strikes his attention again, like he's a kid with some attention-deficit disorder who keeps looking at a shiny object, getting mentally lured away by a squirrel, and then seeing the gleam of the object as it's struck by the sun again.

He scans her posts for a while, imagining himself with her in the situations presented by each one. Oh, the couple they could be. If she finally gave in and admitted to herself that she loves him, things could be so fantastic between them. They'd be the horror fanatic couple, king and queen of Cinema Club, through the rest of high school. Then they'd move on to college—film school, Charlie's positive, because Kirby was considering it and he's already gotten his acceptance letter—and stay together like most high school relationships don't, supporting each other as they concoct the foundations of their careers. They'd graduate, be thrust into Hollywood, make a big movie together, and get famous for doing what they love. Charlie can already imagine what the premiere would look like.

They'd leave, drunk off success, and climb into their limo, her fingers in his lap the whole way. Then they'd arrive at their hotel, and she'd lead him by the hand up to their room like she had a mission, and, she would, because as soon as the door was shut behind them, they'd start kissing, and Charlie would peel Kirby out of her skin-tight clothes, and he'd eat her out, and suck her nipples, and fuck her until she was screaming his name in ecstasy and keeping everyone on the entire floor awake.

There they'd conceive their first child, and all would be well.

They'd raise a beautiful family, maybe daughters, maybe sons, maybe one, maybe more. Money would never be an issue; their movies, the projects they spent all of high school formulating, would earn them worldwide acclaim, and they'd have to give some of their earnings away to charity just so they didn't have to handle it all.

It'd be so wonderful, and Charlie is confused as to why Kirby can't see what he sees, the things that could (will!) happen if they get together.

It's not a matter of sometimes that Charlie believes he can't get anywhere without her in his future. It's more like every waking minute, and not even _waking_ , because he sees Kirby in almost every dream he has. He's utterly obsessed with her, and for good reason. She is beautiful, and he is nothing, and, together, they would be an equilibrium.

But his urges towards her aren't exactly as innocent as he likes to portray them to himself. There's a much, much darker edge to them. Because, as much as he wants to have picnics with her and as much as he wants to cuddle with her on cold nights and as much as he wants her to bear his children, he can't lie and say that it's all he wants. He desires other things for her, things that aren't compatible with the future he's come to envision.

For starters? He wants to make her _hurt_. He wants to get her alone and throw her down and teach her that people are evil at heart, more evil than she could ever imagine. He wants to violate her against her will and throw his hand over her mouth so she can't yell for help. But, then, that'd ruin everything, so he'd have to strangle her to death, because if he can't have her, no one can. And that would make things even worse, so he'd have no option but to hide her until his parents left home for a while, butcher her like a hog in the bathtub, and sink her parts in a pond for the catfish or drive out to the ocean and leave her to the churning blue sea.

Fuck, he just came not a minute or two ago, and he's already feeling hot again. He's literally defying biology because of Kirby Reed.

The tension in his gut and between his legs, boiling, heavy, dense, makes it impossible to keep his attention on Facebook, impossible to keep his attention on Kirby's passive-aggressive rants about Trevor being annoyingly overprotective of Jill or her movie reviews. He needs to think about fucking her again.

Charlie switches back to the photo album and jacks off for the second time, envisioning his cock sandwiched deep in Kirby's tight insides, but, this time, he does not imagine it to be romantic. Katy Perry's "Teenage Dream" can eat its fucking heart out; Charlie wants Kirby so he can rape her and kill her and dump her in a river and that is goddamn that.

* * *

   
Trevor eyes them while he's leaned against the sill of his bedroom window, with his heart pounding in his chest, a smile he just knows would look disturbed to any bystander blooming across his face, and a curtain of bliss drawn across his troubled mind.

Trevor's never been more pleased about the accident his parents had. Sure, he and his brother fight a lot, and sometimes it seems like his parents pay a lot more attention to the boy ten years his junior, and there was that one incident where Trevor and Jill were making out in one of the bedrooms and Trevor's brother walked in on them, but there's a lot of benefits, too. For one, it makes it much easier to sneak out at night to be with girls and party when Trevor's parents don't even think of checking in on him. And it gives him someone to blame things on when he breaks something or doesn't cover his tracks well enough while he's sneaking around and doing something he shouldn't. There's quite a few things Trevor wouldn't be able to get away with if he didn't have the little dork around.

But, most importantly, having a little brother gives Trevor access to his passion.

Kids.

He loves little bodies. Every night, he falls asleep thinking about smooth skin and high-pitched laughter and the innocence that makes them so, so vulnerable, and every morning, he wakes up with wet underwear and a soft, limp cock in the aftermath of the same recurring dream that makes him shiver in his sleep even when he's just napping.

It always starts in a playground Trevor's never been to or seen in person, on a day with a warm breeze and a pale blue sky dotted with white clouds shaped like puffs of smoke emerging out of the end of a lit cigarette. He'd be there alone, standing in the gravel, and when he first started having the dream, the sense that something bad was going to happen tugged at him persistently, given that the air is always silent and there is not any human, car, or even squirrel or bird in sight.

Well, there's always  _one_ human. One human Trevor will never get over.

It's the same little girl every time. She's small, maybe five or six, with midnight skin and curly, dense black hair and almond-shaped eyes that appear somewhere between hazel and dark brown in the sunlight. She'd sit on one of the swings, not swinging, just sitting, and give Trevor an innocent look, eyes wide, smile blossoming across her chubby cheeks, as if to beckon him closer.

In the beginning, he really tried not to hurt her. When he dreamed at first, he believed wholeheartedly that it was all real, that he was alive and awake and all the choices he made would affect his true existence. But, eventually, that resolve to be a good person was lost, a little bit at a time.

The first couple of times, he ignored her completely, telling himself that it was wrong for him to approach her, even if she was lost, because he was seventeen, not a kid anymore, and he wasn't sure what people would think of him if Robbie just happened to be walking by and got video of him in a public place talking to a little girl who clearly isn't related to him. But, despite all that, it was only a few nights later that Trevor was talking to her, asking her where her parents were and accepting the answer that her mother had just gone to the bathroom for a minute, which turned to him challenging her to see how high she could swing and relishing in her jovial laughter, him completely aware that her mother would probably bite his head off for getting so close to her but unable to pass up the chance. Eventually, he was pushing her on the swing himself.

And then he started touching her.

That was when his nights transformed from him waking up with a stiff, aching cock, as usual for a teenage boy with tumultuous hormones, to him emerging from bed every morning with his own semen still sticky on his thighs.

Trevor would ask the girl if she wanted to see his puppy, Spike, the first thing he could come up with given that it was the name of his actual dog, and she'd say yes, and he'd take her by the hand, lead her into the sandy alley between the two brick buildings next to the playground, and find his release with her there. He'd strip off her frilly dress and panties and squeeze and lick her little brown nipples and rub the folds that feel like velvet against his fingers. He'd push his fingertips into her wet, tight hole, until he'd diminished her into a squealing, moaning mess. He'd put his lips on her pussy and lick her dry the way he had with not one, but _two_ girls his age, but, this time, he'd find actual satisfaction in it, and he'd long to do it again for more reasons than just to deflect suspicion about his taboo desires.

And once he realized it was a dream, when it became lucid and he could do whatever he wanted while knowing it was all fake, Trevor graduated to raping her.

He'd push her up against one of the brick walls and fuck her until she was screaming in agony, screaming in fear, and screaming some more for the help that never seemed to come. He'd fuck her so roughly, jerking his hips back and forth as fast as he could, pounding her tiny, underdeveloped cervix, that she was squirting blood onto his erect cock, but he didn't care, and he never did, because he knew at this point that it was all a dream, the same dream he had every night, and there would be no consequences. He'd fuck her until she gave up her resolve and grew silent and limp until he finished and pulled out with a rush of his cum and more blood, and every time he'd climax inside her, he'd swear to himself that she secretly enjoyed the entire thing. Yes, he'd fuck her until he was done, and, then, usually, he'd either be jerked out of his dream by the sound of his alarm or he'd pull up his jeans, leave her standing there naked and pigeon-toed and shrieking in pain, and resign himself to the thought of wiping out the pair of old boxers he wore every night to catch his load and walk off until he decided he wanted to wake up.

That is how the dream goes now. Every night, he acts out his fantasies on the same little girl who seems to be etched into his brain.

But that doesn't mean he's satisfied.

The dream is getting to not be enough.

So, now, instead of calling Jill or Jenny or watching a movie or doing his homework and studying for the test on Friday, he watches his little brother play with his friends out in the front yard. He doesn't really care that Jill might suspect that he's cheating (he is) if he doesn't pay enough attention to her, and he doesn't care about school because math of any kind was never his power move and he's sure he's going to bomb the test either way.

All he cares about is watching those kids.

He bites his lip. They're chasing each other around, and even from inside, he can hear their shrill squealing as they tease each other. Adults don't do that. They don't have time to play. They just work and study all the time and start petty drama on their off hours. Right now, Jenny's starting some petty drama—Trevor hears his phone beep and he knows it's a message from her—because she wants him to break up with Jill and be exclusive with her instead. Kids aren't like that. When they start relationships, it's cute. They hold hands, and play together at recess, and give each other gifts. They don't cheat or backstab or live in loveless pairs. It's so much less complex, and so much easier, and Trevor wishes with all of his heart that high school relationships were that simple.

But Trevor doesn't really want to be a kid himself. He enjoys the freedom and the responsibilities and the more immediate nature of his future. He enjoys not having to go to bed less than an hour after it gets dark outside, enjoys being able to go out with friends alone, enjoys having his own money, and he enjoys being able to drive. He'd be lost and angry without all those things, the kind of anger that would stew inside him until he finally couldn't take it anymore and had to force it out on someone. Then he'd end up in the corner or with his toys taken away.

Yeah, Trevor doesn't want to go back to that stage of his life.

He'd rather admire it from a distance.

There's four of them out there, counting Trevor's brother. All boys, all his brother's age, all slim and fit and with innocent, youthful faces, and round eyes, pink lips. They're playing some kind of team game that involves running, probably their version of Calvinball, with arbitrary rules and no rhyme or structure, or, at least, that's the inference Trevor has made based on what he's observed, but that's not really important.

No, what's important, to Trevor, at least, is that two of the boys are shirtless. Skins. It's just a team divider, but it means a lot more than that to Trevor.

Trevor's cock starts to stiffen down in his jeans as he watches their unclothed, pale bodies streak across the grass, toned but undeveloped muscles rippling under their skin, obvious even from the distance. It's like seeing a herd of wild stallions; he's enamored by their beauty and their elegance and the raw power in their running. And he's certain they'll develop into beautiful young men.

He just knows he won't have any interest in them once they're bigger and stronger and more aware of the many ills of the world, more like him and less like what he was a decade ago. He wishes they'd stay like this forever. He wishes they were cypress trees and not cherry blossoms.

The next time Trevor thinks about Jenny Randall and her text message, he has half of a hard-on formed in his pants. He doesn't let it stop him from enjoying the little show outside, but, now, as he watches, his mind is racing.

Depending on how he feels that day, he dates girls either to fix himself or as a cover for his attraction to kids. He came up with the idea a while ago that, maybe, if he dated two girls at once and made it into a massive scandal, no one would suspect that he should be the absolute last person to have a little brother. But even though Jenny is pestering him to put the last leg of his plan into action, something interesting, considered no one knows about Trevor's plan but him, he's not ready yet. Doing something like this requires the ability to wait, to decide the absolute best time to make sure word of his actions will spread as far as possible.

Outside, the game is over; Trevor watches in horrified disappointment as the boys trot over to where their clothes lie on the driveway and wrestle their shirts back on over their heads. The other two, the fully clothed ones, head for the door, and once the others are dressed, they follow.

Trevor gets an idea.

He really doesn't want to do it. Every part of his conscience is telling him not to, because, really, he thinks of himself as good at heart, only overwhelmed by his sexual urges towards kids. But the stirring in his jeans has him pinned against the wall with it screaming in his face for him to act out what's occurred to him, and he can't get over his urges long enough to do the noble thing, or, really, the only thing here with some form of decency attached to it, and say no to himself.

He has to get down there.

The door creaks as he peers out of his room and down the stairs; Trevor hears squeaky kid voices, shrill and high and delighted as they squeal on about the outcome of their game. He's so glad taxes are due in a month and his mother, a freelance accountant, is busy in front of the computer across the house. It gives him the perfect opportunity to get what he wants.

He starts down the stairs, and, when he reaches the bottom, he takes in the boys. They're so much cuter up close. Trevor can already picture himself up behind each of them, kissing their necks, licking their pounding jugulars, reaching around to stroke their tiny, hairless, pink worm dicks—

Oh, God, what is he doing?

He wants, so desperately, to be a good person. He wishes he was never cursed with this, but the temptation is too great for someone as concerned with earthly pleasures as Trevor Sheldon, and he cannot resist. He needs to give in. It's the strongest urge he's ever had in his life—he wonders if this is how people with drug addictions or binge eating disorder feel—and he can't fight it any longer.

When the kids quit talking among themselves and look up at the boy, or, perhaps, Trevor contemplates, _man_ , who's just emerged from the dark stairway looking as big and as moody as a hungry grizzly bear, he flashes them a dopey smile, and it does little to quell the uneasiness palpable in the room.

It does little, but Trevor can try, can't he?

* * *

  
God, Charlie's gonna fucking do it today.

His second climax has him exhausted, but he's gonna do it. He's done being an awkward, useless scaredy cat, and he's _absolutely_ done not being Kirby's fixation. He deserves her. After all the time he's waited, he deserves her, and she needs to be punished for refusing to see it, and punished again for making him suffer like this. How dare she not cherish him, when all he's done is try to show her that she's the only thing he ever thinks about. Charlie doesn't pretend that he knows what girls like, but isn't that what every girl wants? A man who only thinks about them? Because Charlie should be perfect, then. He has two settings: Kirby and movies, and those are both things Kirby would approve of. Why doesn't she notice?

Why doesn't she _notice_?

Because he just wants her to notice. Maybe he wouldn't have to do this, if she did.

Charlie pours himself out of bed, grabs his clothes off of his desk, and forces himself into them. He's going through with this. Today, he's going through with it. No debate, fuck his conscience. He's going to teach Kirby a lesson, that they could have had something, that he could have made her famous and rich and happy, but she squandered it, and this is the consequence.

Kirby always dodges consequences. She speeds all the time; Sheriff Riley either doesn't pull her over or lets her off with a warning, and Charlie is sick of it. She can dodge the cops, but she can't dodge him.

Fuck her.

He loves her.

Fuck that bitch.

He grabs his phone, in case he wants to take pictures, and it's when he's stuffing it into his jeans pocket that he remembers that he overheard her saying Friday that her mother is going to be in Sacramento for the week on business. It's surely a better chance that if the genders were reversed, with Charlie's dad at work (with the ability to come home at any time vs being many miles away!) and Charlie, who did completely remember this until the moment he started masturbating, mentally applauds himself that his courage came at the right time.

Then he's ready—mostly. On his way out of the room, he stops at one of his dad's drawers in the kitchen. It's above the one where they keep garbage bags, below the one where they keep cooking utensils, so, unlike Charlie, it's right in the middle, no extreme. And Charlie, certainly a person of extremes, extremely laid-back until Kirby is involved, extremely obsessed with Kirby, extremely into film, doesn't fail to find amusement in that. Temporarily, of course, because he knows the only thing he can ever enjoy more than a couple of minutes at a time is the velvet feel of Kirby's still-warm folds against his cock after he slits her throat, but he does find a little amusement in it.

Yeah, killing her is the only way he can have her. Some girls are stupid, and they have to be forced to make the decisions right for them.

So Charlie digs through the drawer, past the rubber band ball, shoving the nails and the hammer to the side, even though the hammer might be useful for his future endeavors, taking the pliers out and setting them back inside a few inches away from where he's searching... until he finds them. A small length of coiled, bristly rope, a roll of duct tape, and a pair of binoculars he's more familiar with than he'd like to admit.

Perfect.

He fills his pockets and shoves the drawer shut with his elbow. And, now, he's pretty sure he's at the point of no return, the moment where all has been decided. Not that he could ever afford regrets, and not that he'd ever, ever have them. Kirby is his, now, and that's all he can focus on.

Of course, he could still turn back. It's not like he's already straddling her and beating her head in with a dumbbell.

But why would he _want_ to turn back?

As Charlie leaves through the back door and walks across town, unwilling to let his car be spotted near a future crime scene, not that he'd mind going to prison for life as long as it meant he got to demolish Kirby, he debates the amount of times he's been over to her house. Five times he's actually been inside, a few times for the annual Stab-a-Thon afterparty, once for a group project, and once out of the kindness of Kirby's heart, but the amount of times he's been on the property? He's not sure numbers go that high yet. Sometimes, if he has a little extra time on his hands during the night, he'll creep over to Kirby's with the binoculars he's carrying, hide in the bushes, and watch her sleep, because, for some reason, she usually sleeps with the lights on. He's never seen anything better than that yet, but he's sure as hell prayed for it, not that he believes in God, because no loving god would ever subject him to this kind of mistreatment, and no loving god would ever have given him these torturous feelings for his Kirby.

He arrives a while later, coming down the sidewalk like he's heading to school or walking an invisible dog or otherwise being totally innocent. He finds that sort of fascinating. He saw people on his way up here, and they probably didn't suspect a thing. Even in Woodsboro, setting for the infamous murders Charlie is so obsessed with, there's some kind of small-town implicit trust in others. Well, maybe not for Charlie, since he's aware he looks like a creep—a hot creep, Robbie sometimes reminds Charlie when he's blaming his looks for his acute lack of attention outside of Cinema Club, and Charlie's pretty sure Robbie might have a little crush if he's willing to lie like that to make Charlie feel better—no matter what he does, but for everyone else, people's minds never seem to go to the morbid.

This time, as soon as his feet hit the stretch of grass Kirby's mother could say she owns, Charlie doesn't hesitate, not the way he typically does when he arrives. On an average trip to spy on Kirby, he always sort of second guesses himself as he stands in the shadows, telling himself that he should leave her alone and go home because, in a brief display of either self-hatred or sanity, depending how he feels about himself that day, he thinks she's innocent and beautiful and his evil will corrupt her. But not this time. He wants her so badly that it overpowers all logic, all reason, all guilt, and he no longer believes that, even though he's pathetic and weak and disgusting, he's not her entire future, the boy she's going to marry, her precious flower. She just hasn't seen it yet, and it's his job to save her from her own stupid indecision.

He buries himself in the bushes outside the window he knows opens into her bedroom, and that's when he fumbles the binoculars out of his pocket, just to get a good sense of what's going on inside. They're out of focus, for a moment, and all he can see is a tiny, blurry shape hunched on Kirby's bed—she must be waiting for him to come in and fuck her senseless, like she has some sort of psychic connection with him—and he hopes it's what he thinks it is. He toys with the binoculars for a moment, and when everything clears up, his blood runs cold in his veins.

Kirby's lying spread-eagle on the mattress, _naked_ from the waist down, her red panties dangling suggestively at her ankles, her hand wedged between her—

Holy shit, Charlie's stumbled into Mecca.

At first, he thinks he's gone crazy, that he's hallucinating it all, but the longer he stares, the more real it all becomes, the more concrete one of his fantasies presents itself to him as. He still doesn't believe it; there's some sort of divorce between him and reality, or, at least, whatever this is where Kirby is masturbating right in his view, because he still has his doubts that it is reality, but it's morphing into less of a dreamlike blur and more of an actual experience he can quantify and process as it comes.

"Jesus, Kirbs," he whispers to no one in particular, voice heavy with astonishment at his own luck as he adjusts his binoculars. "You're such a freak."

He crouches there for a moment, watching her start to pick up speed and then buck her hips against the pressure of her fingers on her most sensitive parts. It must feel so good. It must feel _so_ , _so_ good.

But the most important thing here is that _Charlie_ could do that to her. He could do that to her right this moment, and he knows it, and he's sure she's not below figuring it out. He could throw her down and fuck her until she looked the same as she looks now. It wouldn't even take that much effort from either of them, because Charlie knows he's meant to fit inside her, and pleasure should come naturally without either of them having to do a thing to achieve it.

Why is she doing alone what they could do together?

Despite all that, Charlie is fine. He'd watch her do this until time turned back around. He'd watch her do this until he died of exposure and starvation out here in her bushes. He'd watch her do this until God smited Earth. He'd watch her do this until all was gone and he could not watch anything, let alone her, and there's a sort of beauty in that kind of loyalty, or so he believes.

Maybe she won't die today.

If she dies, Charlie can't watch her play with herself anymore. If she dies, his whole _life_ is over. But, as long as she rejects him, he can't keep himself from killing her.

She's safe from him for now.

_For now._

He watches her finish.

* * *

  
"Hey," Trevor says. "You guys wanna see something cool?"

The boys, if they were at all unsure, show no sign of it now. A high schooler is talking to them, and not only that, but _acknowledging_ them, like they're equals! Trevor can hardly imagine their excitement, even though it's apparent on their faces.

"We were gonna go ask when Mrs. Sheldon's making dinner, but if it's really that cool," one of the boys says. His gaze skirts across the others. "Right?"

He's a particularly sweet one, a blond with huge, dark eyes; Trevor would love to spread his legs, give him head, and hear all his little moans. And Trevor can already imagine a small cut dick in his mouth, a teeny, warm, underdeveloped sack flapping against his jaw as he sucks. Fuck, he's gonna get hard, at this rate. He can feel the warmth, the pressure, building deep between his legs.

Trevor just wants to fuck some kids.

Trevor's brother gives him a doubtful look. He doesn't really seem like he's _suspicious_ , per se, but he's definitely not convinced. Trevor doesn't really talk to him much, and for good reason—how's he supposed to cover up being a pedophile if he's too close with his little brother? The more distant he is, the less people will believe accusations if he ever does something like what he's planning to do now. But that makes this, the sudden rush of attention, a little alarming.

Like the child he is, however, still innocent, the doubt emerges from its cocoon turned into a smile. Kids are convinced by anything. They don't know enough about the world to have thorough reasoning skills, and Trevor can take advantage of this by simply telling these boys what to believe.

Trevor smiles back, a bit more exaggeratedly than if he truly meant it.

"Trust me, it's cool."

Another one of the boys, stocky but lean with freckles and a big puff of dark ginger hair, grins. "What is it?" he asks.

"Woah, calm down," Trevor says, winking. "I'll show you it, promise. And I don't break my promises."

"But I want to know _now_!"

Fuck, Trevor hasn't been this aroused in his life. He loves it when they beg. He loves it when they want more of something they don't even know, and he loves it when that something is actually him.

The last boy, skinny with a dark brown Afro, nudges the redhead in the ribs with his elbow. "He won't show us if you aren't quiet," he warns.

Trevor smacks his hands together for emphasis. "Okay. All of you, me, upstairs, now. It's gonna be awesome."

Trevor's brother, eyes glossy with innocence, full with the empty space where his suspicions would be if he were older, is the first one to take a step forward, and, though Trevor doubts any of the boys feel anything about this but full trust, he's not at all surprised that it's the one with the family tie who believes him most.

And that action, Trevor's brother, the ringleader (or who Trevor has noted to be the ringleader after several rounds of watching the boys interact together, mostly for his own sexual pleasure but also to map their dynamic out of both curiosity and some desire to vicariously live through them), submitting to the trick, spurs the others to follow along, and, before he knows it, Trevor is encapsulated in the belly of his greatest dream, leading a group of little kids up the dark stairs into complete privacy, where he can do whatever he wants to them as long as he can play his cards right.

And Trevor isn't bullshitting when he says he's a poker master with this kind of stuff. If he really wanted to and it wasn't just a stunt to hide his perversion, he could probably have relationships with both Jill and Jenny for real and maintain them until he dies of old age without the other finding out. Convincing some stupid kids not to tell their parents that he slid a hand down their pants is pretty easy in comparison.

When they come to the top, his door creaks as he opens it, and he lets the kids file in first, just to be polite, because, really, he's so attracted to these boys that he's become infatuated, and he has a lot of trouble distinguishing that from genuine love, and he constantly feels like he has to prove that he loves what he loves after so long of being overexaggerated with Jill to fake it. Once they're all inside, Trevor shuts the door behind him. He's always been disappointed that it doesn't have a lock, but it's never posed him a serious threat before now. Then again, he plans to be quick about this, despite the fact that he wishes he could be with these boys for the rest of eternity, and he doesn't feel like he's running much risk as long as he's careful.

Trevor takes a few steps forward. The boys are lined up in front of his bed like four army recruits. That would make Trevor the drill sergeant. And he supposes it's true, because he's about to make these boys into men.

"Now, you guys sit down here," Trevor says, pushing his brother down until he falls into a sitting position on the edge of the mattress. "I'll show it to you."

The other boys fall into the pattern Trevor started. Trevor flops into his desk chair, which he left facing outward, and gets comfortable. Then he unbuttons and unzips his pants. His massive cock, just short of eleven inches erect (he measured it out once, just out of curiosity), is pressed down tight in his underwear, overpowered, caged, smothered—he reaches in and tugs it through the fly, and it springs out as if fired from a slingshot.

The boys are astonished.

"It's huge!" one of them—Trevor's not sure which—whispers to another.

"That's not even what I wanted to show you," Trevor remarks. "It'll take a minute, though, so be patient."

Their eyes become even bigger, trembling platters on their tiny faces. Maybe this isn't wrong. Maybe it's Trevor's destiny, to do this.

He fights that thought off just as fast as it came. It will always be wrong. This is disgusting, and sick, and so, so immoral—but people do things they know are wrong all the time, and this is entirely justifiable, at least to Trevor. He wants it. He can't resist. He can do it now or keep fighting and do it later when his resolve has diminished from miniscule to non-existent, and he'd rather just get it out of the way as soon as he can.

Before he can debate himself any further, Trevor wraps his hand around the head of his cock, the flesh pale red against his calmer fingers, and strokes down to the base. Then he pushes his fist back up and lets out a shuddering moan. He continues this at a rapidly increasing speed until he's jacking off in earnest.

They're so hot. They're so fucking hot, and he can't even stand it. He's gonna cum so soon, Jesus Christ, because he can't stop mentally undressing each boy, imagining their thin, feminine legs and tiny cocks and the divots of their navels and their little pink nipples, so juicy, so plump, and their collarbones. All he understands right now is kissing their thighs and working his way around to their holes and sucking and fucking and leaving them dripping with his sticky seed. All he can imagine is taking their innocence and making them hurt and owning them. All he knows is sleeping next to them and holding them close and waking up in the middle of the night to rub them off as they sleep. It's a blessing and a curse, horrible and beautiful, and oh God, oh Jesus, he's going faster now, harder, and he just can't—

Normally, he takes much, much longer.

But not right now.

In his head, he cusses out every deity he knows, even the ones he doesn't believe in, for making something earthly feel so good as he squirts all over his hand, all over the floor, all over his thighs, easily the biggest load he's ever had. It's like a volcano spitting white, warm lava, spewing it everywhere in sight and making it ooze and dribble and flow. He's still pumping his dick through his fist, and though the thrusts of his wrist have weakened, his grip has tightened up dramatically, as if he were milking himself like a cow. His entire body is quaking.

And as he finally comes back down to reality, as he finally finishes drifting through the sky so he can lie back down, limp and unconscious, on the planet's soil, he looks at the boys as if to ask if they're impressed.

"Woah, that's cool," the one with the Afro says. "It's like... milk!"

Trevor's brother's eyes are massive. "How did you do that? That's never happened to me!"

Trevor gets an idea.

"You can do it too, but it might take a long time. If you practice doing it for a few years, it'll just... come to you," he says. " _Pop_."

"Wow!"

"But if someone sees you doing this, you can't tell them I told you. You know this is our secret, and no one can find out about it," Trevor says, trying to sound as authoritative as possible while still coming off as a friend and an equal. "You're the only ones who get to know what happened."

"So... it's _our_ secret?" the blond asks.

"Mhm."

"We could go play spies!" the redhead chirps. "We have a big secret to protect! We could... get a folder and pretend it's in there, and we gotta guard it!"

The other boys grin at this.

Trevor nods. "You're all good to do whatever you want as long as you keep it a secret. Okay?"

Then he smiles. God, they're so innocent. They don't even realize that they just got manipulated, abused, and, now, they're even turning it into a game. It's so arousing... there's a stirring deep in Trevor's gut, one that uncoils until it's rolled down between his legs, tightening up. Maybe he'll have to masturbate again when the boys are gone. The image of them sitting there side by side, their faces as illuminated with wonder as that of a puppy's when he sees snow for the first time, will be forever branded into Trevor's memory as if with a hot iron. It might be his only fantasy from now on, the little girl from the dream playground be damned.

Trevor doesn't have to usher them out—he stays there, pushing his floppy, flaccid cock back into his underwear so he can zip up, and the boys find their way out of his room themselves, whispering in hushed but frenzied voices about what they just witnessed.

And Trevor has never felt so satisfied in his life. He huffs a little sigh of warm air out between his lips, like he's just gorged himself on a massive meal until his stomach is so round and taut inside him that he can hardly breathe. It comes with both the self-indulgent pleasure and the guilt that such a binge would entail. He's just graduated from pedophile, implying that he thinks about kids but not that he's offended, to full-on pedophilic child molester, implying that he thinks about kids _and_ offends.

Strangely, for someone who's experienced so much internal conflict about his urges to become one, he's overjoyed to finally be a child molester, because it means his days of repression, especially difficult at his age, are over, and he now has the courage to act on kids whenever he wants.

Yet, he's also very, very upset with himself for doing something like that. He understands why he did it, but not how that justified it. These kids, though they may not know it now, will need so much therapy when they realize that Trevor just molested them that it would make Trevor's head spin if he could really picture all they'd have to go through in their teens and later.

But the power of his orgasm, the power of his desire to not only sexually abuse children but to play with them and keep them safe and teach them what they need to know to grow up, the power of his needs as a man... all of that suplexes his guilt to the ground and stomps it until it's blind and deaf and comatose, and, in the aftermath of it all, Trevor might just have a private little visit with his brother later on, and give him another secret to hide so that he can feel special. However, _might_ is a bit of a weak word for how Trevor truly feels. _Might just have_? More like _definitely will have_.

Trevor buttons his jeans and shuts his eyes, engulfing himself back in another fantasy.

Half an hour after the boys leave his room, Trevor goes down to eat dinner at the same table as them like nothing ever happened, and he'd be lying if he said he didn't walk back up the stairs with a boner.


End file.
